


never could be sweeter than with you

by glorious_spoon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Summer, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 01:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14368152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: Beside him, Stiles has gone loose and bonelessly content. His head is back against the mattress and he's rolling the bottle between his palms, his heartbeat slow, heat rising to the surface of his skin. The taste of whiskey lingers on Scott’s tongue. It doesn’t actually work on him, but the burn still feels good, so when Stiles passes him the bottle, he drinks.Or: Stiles hasgreatideas.





	never could be sweeter than with you

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the summer between Season 2 and Season 3; Scott and Stiles are both 16 in this fic.
> 
> Title from 'Home' by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.

It’s a lazy July day, the air still and hot, and they’re sprawled on the floor of Scott’s room still in their swim trunks, the sharp smell of chlorine still clinging to them even after a cursory rinse in the pool showers, passing a stolen bottle of whiskey back and forth. Stiles has gone loose and bonelessly content. His head is back against the mattress and he's rolling the bottle between his palms, his heartbeat slow, heat rising to the surface of his skin. The taste of whiskey lingers on Scott’s tongue. It doesn’t actually work on him, but the burn still feels good, so when Stiles passes him the bottle, he drinks.

His fingers slide over Stiles’s knuckles when he passes the bottle back, and he can hear as much as feel Stiles pause, the sharp sudden thump of his heart, his slow exhale. Scott rolls his head over to look at him. “What?”

“Sometimes I really hate your super-senses,” Stiles mutters. He sips from the bottle, sets it on the floor between his legs, takes another deep breath. The easy lassitude has disappeared, he’s sitting upright, muscles wound tense and getting tenser.

“What?” Scott asks again. “Stiles, what is it?”

“Oh, my god.” Stiles shoves a hand through his hair. It’s grown out longer than Scott has seen it in years, curling damply at his temples. He sounds caught between anxiety and exasperation. “Oh, Jesus, this is stupid, this is a terrible idea.”

“What’s a terrible idea?”

Stiles takes another sharp breath, then stills suddenly, like he’s come to a decision. He looks out the window, swallows, then looks up at Scott. “So, hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you something. If I do, do you promise not to throw me out a window?”

“Who do I look like? Derek?” Scott smiles a little, but he can feel his muscles tightening up in sympathetic response to the tension rolling off of Stiles. “Of course I won’t throw you out a window, man. What is it?”

Stiles licks his lips. His eyes dart up to meet Scott’s for an instant, then down. “I just—”

“What is it?” Scott asks for the third time, soft.

Stiles shakes his head, and then he’s swaying toward Scott, and his heart is racing, and Scott is so distracted by the sound of it that he almost doesn’t notice Stiles touching him, the pads of his fingers light on the outside of his arm. The smell of chlorine overlaying the familiar scent of his soap and his skin when he leans forward and kisses Scott on the lips.

It’s brief, closed-mouthed, but firm enough that there’s no mistaking it for what it is. No mistaking it for an accident. Stiles pulls back before he can react--before he can even think of a reaction--and his eyes are huge. His fingers are still touching Scott’s arm.

“So, um,” he says. “Yeah.”

“What was that?” Scott whispers. He can feel a strange sense of dislocation, his heart pounding almost fit to drown out the sound of Stiles’s heart. His voice sounds completely unlike itself. His lips are tingling. “Stiles—”

Stiles scoffs, all bravado, pulling back and relaxing aggressively. “Like you don’t know a kiss when somebody plants one on you.”

“You—?”

Stiles looks away. “Yeah.”

Scott stares at him, then realizes, “You’re drunk.”

“No, not really.” Stiles lifts the bottle, sloshes it a little. It’s still mostly full. “But if it makes you feel better, I can drink the rest of this and we can both pretend it never happened.”

His voice is light, but Scott has known him almost his entire life, and he knows how he sounds when he’s trying too hard not to care. He’d know it even if he couldn’t hear the way Stiles’s heart is racing, too fast for this to be a joke. Too fast for it to be anything other than completely sincere.

Stiles has been thinking about this. Has been thinking about Scott, like this. The thought makes something warm and confused twist in his belly. It’s not how he felt about Allison; it’s nothing like that. Allison is bright and heady and terrifying; kissing her always felt like free-fall. Stiles is… Stiles is familiar. Scott knows his face, his body so well that he could probably sketch it from memory. Stiles is like home.

Stiles just kissed him, and now Scott can’t stop looking at his mouth. His long fingers are jittering on the neck of the bottle, the whiskey inside glowing golden in the late afternoon sunlight. He licks his lips, and Scott can see the shift in his expression, the tiny flash of resignation before he pulls a smile on. He knows that the next words out of Stiles’s mouth are going to be something light and joking and dismissive, and he realizes with a sudden jolt that he doesn’t want that.

He doesn’t know what the hell he _does_ want, but he knows doesn’t want that, so he leans across Stiles to lift the bottle out of his hand and sets it down on the floor. “You’ll get alcohol poisoning if you drink the rest of this.”

“Hey, I might not have your lycanthropic constitution, but my liver is perfectly capable of—” Stiles breaks off abruptly when Scott puts a finger to his mouth. A huff of warm breath, and then he swallows visibly and says, softer, “What?”

“I don’t know,” Scott admits. He really doesn’t. A part of him thinks that he should let Stiles just say whatever he was about to say, let him brush this off as some weird impulse, a joke, _something_ other that what it obviously is. He drops his hand. “Can I just—?”

He doesn’t even know how that sentence is supposed to end, but Stiles drops his chin slightly, takes a short breath, then lets it out. “Okay.”

It doesn’t exactly look like he’s bracing for a punch, but it doesn’t exactly _not_ look like that, either. Which is stupid, and insane, and Stiles has clearly had too many crushes on terrible people if this is the reaction he expects, and Scott is leaning forward before he makes a conscious decision to do it.

It’s a soft brush of lips, barely even a kiss, and Stiles seems frozen, barely breathing, painfully unlike himself. Like he’s afraid he might shatter if he moves, and maybe that’s why Scott presses his fingers to the warm, rough curve of his jaw, tilting his head for a better angle, stroking a thumb over Stiles’s cheekbone. That gets him a soft little intake of breath, Stiles’s lips parting against his, and all of a sudden they’re kissing for real.

He’s never kissed a guy before. Actually, he’s never kissed _anyone_ other than Allison before, and he’d bet his entire paycheck, raise and all, that Stiles has never kissed anyone at all. He’s more careful about it than Scott would have expected, tentative, like he’s terrified of fucking it up, and that’s just all wrong. He pulls back, just far enough to speak, keeping his hand on the back of Stiles’s neck so he doesn’t get any ideas about bailing. “Stiles.”

“What?” Stiles asks, voice raspy. His eyes look slightly unfocused. They’re startlingly pretty this close, if that’s even the right word to use. Luminous, Scott thinks. That was his vocab word from yesterday. Stiles’s light brown eyes catch the light coming in through the window in a way that almost makes them glow: luminous.

“Come on, man. This is me.”

Stiles breathes out a laugh, but his tight muscles relax a little under Scott’s fingers. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“You don’t have to…” Scott has no idea where he’s going with this. He has no idea what he’s doing at all, but he’s pretty used to going along with Stiles’s crazy ideas, and it usually works out okay. “You should relax.”

“I’m kind of freaking out, here,” Stiles says, quiet and confessional. His gaze cuts away, and he licks his lips. “I didn’t think you’d go for it.”

Scott laughs a little, kisses him quickly. It’s… it’s good. It’s really good. He has no idea where he’s going with this, but he likes it; he likes the feel of Stiles’s skin beneath his fingers, the familiar smell of him tinged with arousal, the way his breath stutters and the way his fingers are gripping at Scott’s arm, the sound of his heart beating rabbit-quick. Okay, yeah, he doesn’t have a _plan_ , but he’s usually pretty good at winging it. Stiles is always the guy with the plan, anyway. “Stop freaking out.”

“Easy for you to say,” Stiles mutters. He rubs a hand over his head, leaving his hair sticking up in spikes, then lets it drop. Scott reaches for it, tangles their fingers together. When he imagined this before— because yeah, he’s _imagined_ it, of course he has, the number of times Stiles has told him lightly that he’s pretty, suggested making out, of course he’s imagined it, it just never, ever occurred to him that Stiles might be serious— he never thought they’d be this tentative. It’s him and Stiles. They’ve never needed to be careful with each other.

“I mean it,” he says, “stop freaking out,” and then he hauls Stiles into his lap.

Stiles lets out a startled noise, his hands flying up, and then he’s straddling Scott’s thighs, the weight of him solid and warm. His eyes are huge, his expression is shocked, and Scott has all of three seconds to worry that he’s just fucked things up catastrophically before Stiles breathes, “Oh, sweet Jesus,” and drags him into another kiss.

There’s nothing tentative about it this time. Stiles’s mouth is hot and slick and his hands are like brands on Scott’s cheeks, and oh, hey, it looks like he’s as quick a study at this as he is at every other goddamn thing in the world, which Scott might resent a little if it wasn’t currently so fucking awesome. His hands find their way up Stiles’s back, feeling the heat of his skin, the flex of muscle under his thin, damp t-shirt, and then he decides that feeling it through his shirt isn’t nearly enough, and slips his hand underneath, cloth riding up beneath his fingers. Stiles breathes out a curse and pulls back just enough to yank the shirt off, and then he’s diving back in, and Scott hauls him closer and oh. Oh, wow. He’s hard, and Stiles is hard, and their dicks are pressed together through two layers of thin cloth, and it’s _awesome._

“Jesus,” Stiles mumbles against his lips, without really pulling back. He’s rolling his hips against Scott, just little motions, like he can’t quite help himself. “Are we seriously doing this?”

“Hell yeah, we’re doing this,” Scott says, and rolls his hips up, lifting Stiles’s weight easily, enjoying the shocked little noise that he makes. Then they’re rutting against each other, and it’s graceless, too fast, just this side of uncomfortable and so, so good that Scott actually whines in the back of his throat when Stiles pauses, pressing his hands to Scott’s chest and leaning back a little.

“No, no, stop, I’m going to come,” he says, and even though it’s pretty obvious where this is heading Scott still feels a bolt of startled heat go through him at that, leans forward to bite at the curve of Stiles throat, tasting clean sweat and the sharp tang of chlorine.

“Isn’t that kind of the idea?” he asks, opening his mouth to suck a mark below Stiles’s collarbone.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , oh my God, Scott, seriously, stop it, I refuse to come in my pants and that’s gonna happen in about three seconds if you don’t—”

Scott manages to lift his head. Stiles is staring down at him, his eyes glittering, a hot flush high in his cheeks. Scott swallows, and drops his hands to Stiles’s hips, hooking under the still-damp waistband of his swim trunks and tugging. “So get them _off_ already.”

Stiles swallows audibly, then says, “Okay. I can do that.” He sits back on his heels, but he doesn’t reach for his shorts right away; instead, he goes for Scott’s shirt, yanking at it roughly enough that Scott’s actually a little concerned that the fabric will tear. “Off, get this off, I’m not going to be the only naked person here--Jesus, you’re so pretty,” he adds, as Scott peels the shirt off over his head and flings it somewhere into the detritus covering his bedroom floor. “How are you so pretty, oh my God.”

Scott laughs breathlessly, smacks him lightly on the arm. “I’m not pretty.”

“You are _so_ pretty,” Stiles retorts, grinning, and tugs at his swim trunks. “Take these off.”

“Bossy,” Scott says, but he shifts up, Stiles’s legs still bracketing his thighs, and shoves them down. Flushes when Stiles’s gaze rakes over his body, lingering on his cock; it’s not like they’ve never seen each other naked before, but context is, uh. A thing. Apparently.

It helps a little that Stiles is blushing too, that he hesitates a little before sliding out of his own shorts, lifting up from Scott’s thighs to kick them off. His cock curves toward his belly, moisture beading at the tip. It’s the closest Scott’s ever been to anyone’s dick, other than his own. His fingers twitch, and he looks up at Stiles’s furiously blushing face. “Can I, uh—?”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Stiles says, on a huff of laughter. “ _Yes_. Yes, you can— in fact, please do— oh sweet fucking Christ,” he adds all in a rush as Scott curls a curious hand around him. The angle is weird, but this part isn’t that different, actually, from jerking himself off. The way that Stiles sways against him, groaning in the back of his throat, his heart pounding so loud that it drowns out everything out, the way his fingers tangle into Scott’s hair to drag him up into a messy, open-mouthed kiss— that part is different. _Way_ different, and awesome.

It’s rough, a little too dry, but when he starts to pull back to fumble for the lotion he keeps near the bed, Stiles mutters into his ear, “If you stop now I’m going to kill you,” sounding at least halfway serious, and mouths wetly at the curve of his throat, the scrape of his teeth maddening. Scott drags him closer with his free hand, licks into his mouth, and rubs a thumb over the head of his cock, smearing pre-come, just enough slickness that Stiles shoves into his grip, curses brokenly against his lips, and comes all over his hand.

Scott gentles him through the aftershocks, doesn’t let go until Stiles shoves him away. He’s still achingly hard, and it doesn’t help when Stiles looks at him with an expression that’s soft and shocked, then drops his gaze to where Scott’s hand and both their bellies are slick with come. He curls his hand around Scott’s, lifts it, and— _ohgod_ — sucks his fingers into his mouth. Tasting himself, Scott realizes dizzily, and then Stiles curls his tongue and makes a low, pleased sound, and Scott whines in the back of his throat, mortifyingly close to coming without having been touched at all.

Stiles’s eyes snap up to his face. He lets Scott’s fingers slip out of his mouth, leaving a shiny trail of spit across his lower lip, and then he grins. It’s a familiar grin, the one he always wears when he’s coming up with a plan that’ll get them both into all kinds of trouble, and it says something, probably, that the reflexive punch of adrenaline that goes through Scott at the sight of it doesn’t do a goddamn thing to turn him off.

“So, hey,” Stiles says, his hands on Scott’s shoulders. “I have an idea.”

“Should I be worried?” Scott asks breathlessly. Stiles shoves at him, his hands warm and familiar, and Scott allows himself to be maneuvered until he’s flat on his back on the floor.

“Depends on how you feel about blowjobs.” Stiles is still grinning, but there’s a sudden stutter in the quick rhythm of his heart, his hands lifting from Scott’s shoulders, brushing over his belly, maddeningly light.

Scott squirms under his fingers, feeling a hot flush spreading down across his chest, his eyes glinting gold before he manages to get the shift under control. “Uh,” he manages. “Positively?”

“Awesome.” Stiles’s mouth is following the path of his fingers, opening warm and wet over Scott’s abdomen as his hand wraps around his cock, and Scott can feel him press a smile to his hip when he jerks helplessly into the touch. “So, I’ve never done this before.”

“I _so_ don’t care,” Scott groans, and then, giving up all pretense of dignity, “Stiles, _please—_ ”

“Okay, okay—” Another soft press of lips, a nip of teeth, and then Stiles is sliding his mouth down over Scott’s cock and Scott has to slap both his hands on the floor to keep from grabbing at him. The noise that escapes him is nothing short of embarrassing. Stiles still has a hand wrapped around the base of his cock, grip firm, his thumb moving in little circles over the vein, but what he’s doing with his mouth is more exploratory than anything. A soft curl of tongue, lips sliding over the glans and sucking lightly, a scrape of teeth that might be accidental, that definitely shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

Scott curls his hands into fists at his sides. He’s thrusting up into the slick heat of Stiles’s mouth, just shallowly, trying not to choke him, and then Stiles pulls off entirely and he makes an incoherent noise of protest.

“You can pull my hair, if you want,” Stiles says, sounding hoarse and amused and incredibly fucking smug, and sucks him back down. Purposefully, this time. Scott lets his head thump back against the floor. Lifts a hand, fingers curling over the sharp curve of Stiles’s jaw, his hollowing cheeks, then back into his hair. It’s not really long enough to get a grip on, but he tangles his fingers in it, tugging as well as he can, and Stiles groans around him, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he’s done. His hips jerk up and he’s coming before he can even gasp out a warning.

“Jesus,” he manages, after Stiles pulls off, the aftershocks still zinging through him like sparks. “Sorry.”

Stiles flops onto the floor next to him. He’s completely wrecked, mouth red and wet, still flushed. There’s a thumbprint of a bruise under his ear that Scott definitely doesn’t remember leaving, and he looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Sorry? Are you kidding me? That was literally the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. We should do that all the time.” He lifts his head to look at Scott, then licks his lips and adds, a little uncertain, “I mean. If you want to.”

“I want to.” Scott reaches over to pull Stiles into a lazy kiss. He can’t stop smiling long enough to really deepen it, but when he pulls back, Stiles is smiling too, so that’s okay. “You have good ideas.”

“I have _great_ ideas,” Stiles says, and kisses him again.

 


End file.
